


Childhood Greetings

by piss_america



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Childhood Memories, Gen, I copy and pasted the Russian words, Leftunity - Freeform, Why Did I Write This?, don't be mad at me, i don't speak russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24988918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piss_america/pseuds/piss_america
Summary: What were the odds that the two extreme leftists would be in one spot since their childhoods? They were destined to meet from the beginning, but ten year old Ancom would never have guessed they would become… Friends? At least unconventional teammates.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Childhood Greetings

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so Anarkitty is ten and Commie is twelve. Listen, Anarkitty is a child here- aka not as woke- so I used he/him pronouns... If it like bothers you I'm sorry but I'm too lazy to change it

Ancom swung his legs in his seat near the back of the classroom. It was a Friday, and he was bored out of his mind. He never paid attention in class, never even pretended to, but somehow he was still passing all of his classes. He had always believed school was something created to make children less intelligent, but no one ever listened to him.

He put his hooded head on his desk and nearly dozed off. He, along with much of his classmates, stirred as the 3:00 bell rang. He stuffed his baseball bat into his backpack and put his mask over his face.

He and his classmates all raced out of the room with their backpacks. Ancom glanced around the school grounds as all of the students exited the school. There were cliques in and throughout every grade, made of people of similar ideologies. Ancom was technically in a clique as well, of people who believed in liberation from capitalism. He had started the group, but didn’t really consider himself the leader.

He tried not to speak to the other members of the group, due to them all being so much more vocal with their opinions than him, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel good to have a friend group. He sat with them at lunch and on the bus, and led their protests against the teachers.

Ancom heard someone call his name from a few feet away. He looked up to see Mutualist and Anarcho-Pacifist, his friends from the other class, running towards him. He stopped in his tracks and removed his mask, feigning a grin to them.

“Anarkitty, come on,” Mutualist chirped, waving his little hammer towards the busses behind them. “You’ll miss the bus.”

“I think I’m going to walk today, guys,” Ancom said plainly, holding the straps of his backpack.

“Oh, why?” Mutualist seemed upset and Ancom almost felt bad, but he stood his ground.

“I just want some air today, I guess,” Ancom shrugged. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Mutualist and Anarcho-Pacifist glanced at each other before shrugging to him. “Well, we’ll see you on Monday, then?” Anarcho-Pacifist said, rubbing his own arm meekly.

Ancom nodded quickly, and the other boys walked away from him quite awkwardly. “Bye, Anarkitty,” Anarcho-Pacifist called over his shoulder.

Ancom watched them for a moment before putting his mask back on and starting down the sidewalk.

He was lost in thought walking down the street, and was startled when he heard arguing coming from around a wall corner. His curiosity peaked and he walked closer. The voices sounded accented in Russian, and he couldn’t quite make out what was being said. He peeked his head around the corner into an alleyway and nearly gasped.

What he saw was the Russian exchange student yelling at a little kid. The Russian one, with an ushanka hat and a thick blazer, he didn’t know the name of was a seventh-grader, and the much smaller one, also with an ushanka and mismatched shoes, was a third-grader that he remembered was called “the Nazbol”.

Nazbol was recognized by the older students for being annoying and trying to join all the different ideology groups at once, even the centrists at one point. The way the little Nazbol always spoke about the student before him, Ancom would have thought they were related. That was clearly not the case.

“Little children like you sicken me,” the older student growled down at the Nazbol.

“I just love- I mean, admire you so much, Communist,” Nazbol whimpered, staring up at the older student, wide-eyed with fear and admiration. “I didn’t mean to bother you!”

“Come near me again and it’s the gulag,” the Communist shouted to him. “Now go!” He pointed towards the exit of the alley, somehow not seeing Ancom.

The little Nazbol stumbled backwards and ran out of the alley, right past Ancom. Ancom stared after him in shock.

“Don’t end up like him.” The low, accented words startled him, and he instinctively pulled the bat out of his backpack. He then turned around to see the Communist staring down at him.

Ancom couldn’t find any words as he stared at the Russian student. He’d seen him before, around the school, but not often since they were in different grades. He did know that he was the leader of the communist regime in the school, and that he was much taller and stronger than the others in his grade. He held his bat in his barely trembling hands.

Suddenly, the Communist burst into a hearty laugh. Ancom watched in confusion as he kept laughing loudly.

“What’s so funny?” Ancom said from behind his mask, frowning up at the seventh-grader.

The Communist wheezed once and shook his head, quickly regaining his composure. “Прости,” he said, folding his arms. “Please forgive, I don’t act like that often.”

Ancom relaxed his muscles when the Communist smiled warmly at him. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt him after all. “Why were you yelling at him?” Ancom said, pulling his mask from his mouth.

The Communist shrugged. “The малыш sort of advanced on me,” he said gently. “I don’t take kindly to that.” He blinked at Ancom, looking him up and down. Ancom shuddered, still not trusting the Russian boy.

“I’ve seen you around before,” the Communist said. “You are fifth-grader, Да?”

Ancom nodded, swallowing. “Yes. My name’s Ancom.”

“I am Commie.” He held out his hand for Ancom to shake. Ancom took it after a bit of hesitation. “Would you care to walk with me?”

Ancom couldn’t suppress a smile at the offer. Somehow, despite this encounter, Commie seemed pretty nice. He put his bat back in his backpack and walked beside Commie out of the alleyway.

“If I recall correctly,” Commie said randomly, “You are leader of the anarchists?”

Ancom turned his head to meet eyes with him. “I suppose so,” he said. “I just started the group, really. The others are a lot more… Vocal, I guess, than I am.”

“Is that why you walk by yourself?”

That question somehow raised some insecurity in Ancom. Commie didn’t seem to notice, so he said, “Why were _you_ by yourself? Aren’t you the leader of the communists? Or… Authoritarian Leftists?”

“Well,” Commie chuckled. “Actually, not exactly. Can you keep a secret for me?” 

Ancom raised an eyebrow. “Uh, sure?”

“I got rid of the Scandinavian socialist,” Commie said. He had said it so plainly that Ancom was confused.

“The sixth-grader?” Ancom said, tilting his head. “What do you mean? I thought he moved.”

“I had to get rid of him,” Commie said, shrugging. “I snapped his neck like toothpick.”

Ancom gasped and blinked at him. “What?! Why did you kill him?”

“He insult my ideology,” Commie said, putting a fist up. “He thought that capitalism in the states could be good thing, and that communism was pointless. So I kill him!” He looked calmly at Ancom, who was wrapping his head around what he heard.

“Hmm…” Ancom put a hand to his chin. “You know what, I don’t blame you for killing him.”

Commie grinned and nodded. “I’m glad you agree, comrade! You have read Communist theory?”

Ancom shook his head. “I haven’t. Actually, I don’t read much theory at all.”

Commie’s smile dropped. “How do you lead regime without being educated on theory?”

“Well, we have praxis,” Ancom muttered. “I mean… It doesn’t matter so much, does it?”

“I disagree, comrade.” Commie stopped walking and reached into his side pocket on his backpack, pulling out a copy of the Communist Manifesto. He held it in front of Ancom.

Ancom felt threatened, so he reluctantly took the book from Commie’s hand. He looked back up at Commie to see that he was smiling again. “Don’t you need this?” Ancom asked.

Commie chuckled lightly. “Oh, Anarkitty, I have loads of--”

“Did you just call me Anarkitty?” Ancom stopped in his tracks, staring at the Communist.

Commie stopped as well, his eyes widening at Ancom. “Oh, дерьмо. Do you mind that?”

“My friends call me that.” Ancom felt his face heat up a bit. “Um… I don’t mind, but…”

“We can be friend,” Commie interrupted. “But you must promise to read theory.”

Ancom felt embarrassed. He hadn’t had a friend outside of his ideology before. After a minute, a smile stretched across his face. “I will! I’ll read the manifesto.”

“Good!” Commie put a comforting arm around Ancom and the two walked on.

When the two reached Commie’s house, they saluted each other to say goodbye. Ancom felt warm inside as he walked home. Were friends always this easy to find?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking maybe I could make this an actual story if you frickin want, or I could make a series........


End file.
